Action Before Thought
by PhantomMemories
Summary: Kink meme Deanon: Nation dying for citizen, inspired by Skillet's 'Hero'  There is some language, and possible hints of pairings, however they can be viewed however the reader likes.  Interlude involves an OC human and Netherlands
1. America

Cold.

For a moment, Alfred wondered if this had been the right thing to do. If in all of his dizzy bubble-brained ideas that he had missed some other way. There had to be another way- and England would just yell at him, and Canada would ask him why he was so stupid sometimes, not to see-

Freezing.

Yeah. Arthur and Mattie would be pissed.

But there hadn't been time to build a robot, or giant hero, or inflate a hot air balloon.

There'd only been America, Alfred, and there'd been the kids- and the bus.

_The streets were slick with frozen rain, and the stormy clouds hadn't let enough light into the atmosphere, so everyone had to rely on the street lamps. Not that that had made a difference, as the bus driver had obviously not seen the three cars before him skid on the dangerous road, then recover just before the overlook-_

_ Alfred had seen it, because he'd been at the overlook for an hour, waiting for Mattie to finish whatever the hell he was doing romping in the snow- Hiking the trails around Mount Washington was supposed to be some kind of thrill- but a thrill that Alfred did not share. Nor was he pleased to be waiting out here in the cold and rain, but Canada had promised pancakes, and Mattie's pancakes were almost worth it- and the view, despite the weather wasn't that shabby (Vanity, Arthur called it.)_

_ And then there'd been the sound of an engine brake, and the bright yellow schoolbus-_

America smiled faintly, despite the way he could feel the heat of his own blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, and cooling in the frigid air.

The cold was good for something, at least. He couldn't feel pain anymore. But maybe that was just because his back was broken. But Alfred didn't care. It didn't fucking matter, so long as he could remember the sight of the last of those kids stepping onto solid ground, and running to a safer spot.

The kids and their driver were safe. That was all that mattered.

_The bus had skidded through the parkinglot, and into the overlook, narrowly missing Alfred. The guard rail had crumpled like paper, and the front wheels of the thing were dangling over the side._

_ Alfred could hear the kids screaming, hear the bus driver scream-_

_ And the vehicle had started to tilt._

_ The patch of ice at the back of the vehicle had prevented Alfred from gaining any sort of purchase to pull it backwards. Pulling down to even it out and allow the kids to escape had produced a screaming of the metal that reminded him of where the weak points were- he'd end up tearing the thing apart, and making the front mounted engine heavier, sending the thing over the steep drop._

_ There was no time, and the weather station personnel wouldn't be able to do anything effective. So Alfred did the only thing he could think of; hopped over the guardrail, and used what little solid ground there was to brace, and _lift_ the bus keep it from falling, so the passengers had time to evacuate out the back._

Who'd have thought the frozen ground could be so comfortable, Alfred thought, as darkness crept up on the periphery of his vision. He'd probably strained something from holding the bus in that position for so long. What. A minute? Two? Nah. It was probably just the angle at which he'd been forced to hold it, while feeling the earth beneath his feet start crumbling.

Maybe he should've let go at that point, but the driver was still trying to get one of the smallest children out. That would have saved Alfred- he could have grabbed onto the rail, and just let the bus go, but...

No. The small smile remained on his face. No, that wasn't what a hero did at all.

And so, he'd held on until he saw the last two exit- and let go, only to find himself falling with the school bus. And falling.

And falling.

Of all the ways America had thought he might die, this... wasn't one of them. (Not that he'd stay dead, but being dead kind of sucked, and kind of hurt, and kind of was one of the biggest pains in the asses for any Nation to recover from, because it meant way too much time recuperating, and hoping that no one attacked, and...)

Landing had knocked the breath out of him, and probably broken his leg, and maybe his spine. And caused a few internal injuries that made him want to curl up in a little ball- not that he'd had time to do much more than yelp (Because Heroes didn't whimper) 'Fuck'- as the bright yellow bus had landed beside him, showering him with broken glass, debris (Someone's permission slip to visit the observatory had briefly gotten stuck on his face, before being blown away by the wind. Maria...) and finally a bit of the rear axle had lodged itself through his midsection.

An explosion of pain, and then the numbness set in.

Ok, so it probably wasn't the cold that was keeping him from drawing a deep breath.

The blue-gray clouds swirled above him, winds keeping him from hearing if they'd called an ambulance or something- if Mattie had made it, maybe he could make sure the driver got that cut above his eyebrow taken care of, rather than wasting time (And risking the human lives) trying to get to him.

Yeah. If Mattie were there-

As if on cue, his twin's face was above his, looking mildly panicked, almost scared, and annoyed.

"You're late." Alfred managed to mumble, "Kids?"

"They're all safe, Al." Mattie was probably annoyed because of all the hassle-

"'Kay," Alfred said with a sigh, feeling his heart slow. The numbness that had grasped him was curling in, shutting him down.

"Rest easy, Hero." Alfred thought he heard Matthew say as death took him in her cold embrace.


	2. Canada

Canada loved hockey.

There was just something about the spray of the ice, the smell of cold blood and hot tempers. Matthew could let go, while playing- or even watching, as he was doing tonight. It didn't matter that the American team was winning this time- they weren't going to leave the rink unscathed.

As he settled back into his seat after the ref had yelled at him **again** to stop provoking the players, Canada noticed the tremble in the concrete below his feet. It made him frown.

He'd know if there were an earthquake, wouldn't he? This was his city- this was _him_ wasn't it?

A cracking sound from somewhere up and to his left made its way to his ear, even above the sound of the slap of the puck, and crash of two players against the wall in front of Matthew. Frowning, he turned to see...

As though it were in slow motion, the second tier of seating was almost slithering forward, the concrete slabs pulling away from the wall with another- louder- crack.

The sounds of the game behind him had all but halted, and a new roar began- that of terrified people. His people. Canada watched as his people did the sensible thing, and evacuated the collapsing balcony and the section below it, aiding each other, and the sprinkling of America's people amongst them- all but one woman in a red and white jersey. She was frozen in place, just staring at her impending doom with wide eyes, and a hand on the collapsed wheelchair next to her.

Time was her enemy- but Matthew could see the steps it would take to get to her, up and over the chair backs, and through the aisles, calculated in his mind how much force that the falling concrete would put on an already damaged human body- and how Alfred was more suited to dramatic situations like this than plain quiet Canada.

But he was already moving.

Less than seconds to act, and none to spare.

She smelled of fear- and a faint hint of maple.

Dust rising in the air as death approached, Matthew smiled at her- the gentle quiet smile that was so often overlooked in favor of the sunshine- and then released her, as one would release a butterfly. Sent her floating towards the waiting arms of a rescuer- another one of his, Canada noted with fleeting pride, one of the team members who'd been suspended for giving the Norwegian team captain an excuse to get dentures.

Man, he was proud of that guy- best reflexes he'd seen in years-

Two tons of concrete, metal and plastic hit Matthew before he could step past the wheelchair.

Pain was temporary, and as much as he hated recovering from death, it'd been worth it for that glimpse of gratitude. For the life of someone who loved the game almost as much as he did.

"Matchmaking and lifesaving at the same time. Well done, mon fils. " He thought he heard France's voice echoing in the darkness that pulled him ever downwards, "My gentle unsung hero."


	3. France

Her name was Jeanne, and while she didn't have even a quarter of her namesake's beauty, she had every bit as much spirit in her eyes.

France could see the resemblance clearly, as she faced the men who had cornered her in the Paris alley. Told them that the girls she had taken in were no longer their concern, and that God might forgive them from using these children, but she would not.

They had spit upon her, raged at her- and from the looks in their eyes, would soon be bathing in her blood.

France could not allow that, no matter that the woman was plain, unfashionably clad in black, and with a figure that lacked in the feminine curves that he found so pleasing. No. She was one of _his, _and working to save a few of the beautiful young girls that had been thrust into a life of prostitution.

No, Jeanne was working to save them all.

Francis was no prude- not by a longshot- however these children _(he could see them as she saw them, innocence ripped away by the crude touch of a strange man, and not for love but for money and power...)_ They deserved better than to die on the streets.

It was one of the wrongs that needed righting- and this angel of the slums-

It had only taken a few steps for him to find himself in the midst of the crowd- and only a few more to her side. The men were of no Nation. Claimed by none, wanted by none- not with their deeds and thoughts. France would have expelled them once more- and most likely would, once the authorities arrived.

"Monsieur?" the words were breathed, as Jeanne's startled gaze was half on him. She wasn't afraid, only curious. Even if it meant her death, she was going to stand her ground.

"Such bravery," Francis murmured, "Another Saint Jeanne in the making-"

The men were infuriated that he'd somehow managed to pass them without being stopped, being not one of _them_, not on their side. They would not let him exit this place without knowing their fury.

The first bricks flew towards Jeanne, the original object of their hatred.

Gracefully, ever so gracefully, France moved to exchange places, turning the hail of projectiles into a Baroque waltz- a ballet, where every planned strike against the woman that he held close to his beating heart landed where it would do her no harm.

On his own body, on the pavement, on the walls behind.

Francis felt the blows, the blossoming bruises. Heard the crack of bone and sick sound of muscle being struck. Jeanne struggled faintly, horror in her clear blue eyes- ah, but that spirit, that unquenchable fire (But not the kind that takes life, but saves it.)

His head was bleeding, and his steps were slowing as the men came closer, intent on pulling France away, finishing both of them and scattering. But Francis would have none of that.

The faint sounds of sirens in the distance let him realize that his task was nearly done, that once the law arrived, the men would either be detained or scatter- only to be caught later.

The familiar sensation of steel sliding between his ribs, and tickling his heart informed him that at least one of the men had a real weapon to use. Perhaps the men had expected Francis to let go of her to grasp at his wounds, or that he would faint, or be othewise useless (his onetime allies would be surprised, perhaps, to see him being so steadfast. All but one, however- Angleterre would understand.)

Jeanne was crying now. Perhaps she was not so plain as he'd believed. Her heart was beautiful.

The decidedly distinct sound of retreating footsteps, and scuffling bodies behind them created a lovely finale to the macabre dance, the voice of a policeman telling them that all was clear bringing a final bow.

"Why..." Jeanne asked him, as he leaned forward to kiss her gently on the forehead.

He left a bloody mark there. So uncouth, and yet-

"Because, to be a Saint, you would have to die, and I could not bear another Saint Jeanne." The words were coming from pain numbed lips, but from the look in her eyes, she understood. She was holding Francis up now, ignoring the way he was bleeding on her (But the clothing was unfashionable anyhow, and she deserved something new, and God knows Francis would as well, after he recovered from death once more), "Keep doing your good work, ma petite."

This Jeanne's shoulders were just as strong as his first one's, able to bear unbearable burdens, and fight the good fight while she still had breath left in her body. Francis smiled faintly, as she moved him to a marginally more comfortable position. In his fading vision, her hair framed her face, and a streetlight gave her an odd little halo. Yes, an angel. And she was just as beautiful-

Eyes fluttering closed, he felt the brush of lips against his forehead, and the soft whisper.

"We entertain Angels in disguise and never know. Sleep well, my hero."


	4. England

_Drowning is not so pitiful_ _As the attempt to rise_ _Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man_ _Comes up to face the skies,_ _And then declines forever_ _To that abhorred abode,_ _Where hope and he part company -_ _For he is grasped of God._ _The Maker's cordial visage,_ _However good to see,_ _Is shunned, we must admit it,_ _Like an adversity._ _ -Emily Dickenson_

Perhaps it was the fact that he was now going to miss his meeting with America tomorrow morning that brought the words to mind. Or perhaps it was the sky blue eyes, wide with terror, arms faltering with exhaustion.

England didn't know why he would be thinking of an American's words, when the young man in his arms was born and raised in Shenley, married in Loughton, and lived with his wife in the same. They'd all come to Yarmouth for a holiday, just as a lot of average families within his boarders did.

(Arthur Kirkland had come there himself for the purpose of seeing that Yarmouth Castle's foundations were being seen to- and the quay. It wouldn't do for him to lose all of his cultural sites.) And yet he found himself in the water at the merest call from a trio at the end of said mooring. He doubted he would ever be able to figure out exactly why young Shenley was in the water and his wife (Poor love couldn't swim, and the young one- the pitiful glimpse that Arthur had gotten of the child reminded him of happier days, and – that was the reason.)

The man was not fighting anymore, which was never a good sign, but there was still a pulse beating underneath his fingers. The tide, however, was pulling them further and further away from the direction that England wished to go.

The line of a boat- a skiff, really- caught at his frantically kicking leg. Perhaps...

There was no way that Arthur had the strength to hoist both of them into the craft- long years of experience on the water paid off in a way. He knew that he would either have to let the other man go to grasp the wood and haul himself out, or he could use the rope to tie them to the craft. Except that if he cut the rope, it would have to be close to the surface, or he would lose the man.

Either way, if he didn't do something soon, they'd _both_ finish up somewhere in France, and while he knew that he would somehow survive it (Though if the Frog bastard touched him while he was dead...) His companion of the moment would not.

_ Three times, tis said, a sinking man/will rise to face the skies_

Shenley born had already gone down twice, any more water and he would be gone for certain, and England's arms and legs were growing ever so tired.

The coast guard would come shortly, but...

Arthur found his pocket knife, only briefly regretting that this would be its last task. It had served him well.

A sailor's knots, and a sailor's moorings suspended the human's head and torso from the water.

The brightly coloured clothing would call attention, England hoped, and the man would be saved. At worse, he would drift a bit closer to France. And perhaps at the same time, they could pick him up.

The tug at his legs and body from both weariness and current reminded him of what he knew was true, and that that meeting with Alfred would have to be delayed, and most likely the one next week with Germany- so many inconveniences.

England knew the tides and currents almost as well as he knew his own heartbeat

From the minute he'd seen the man in the water he'd known that it was a lost cause, but (damn that little niggling hope that kept popping into his heart, and damn Alfred for influencing him) he'd tried anyway- and succeeded, if the sound of a helicopter in the distance was any indication.

His youth would live, and return to his lovely wife, and cherub of a child-

Arthur smiled as the boat drifted from sight, lost between salt water and glare. The ocean might take him to France, or Spain, or America. It didn't really matter. He would always find his way home.

He was England, after all.

The tug at his legs grew too strong, and the water at last claimed the king of pirates- at least temporarily.

His last thoughts were of a little home in Loughton, and that England had bloody well better have a better poem to keep in mind next time.

In the suffocating blend of dark and light, he willingly embraced a Jones who could only keep him for a short time.

And the Rest was Silence.


	5. Interlude: Happy Reunions

His face held the slight blue and pale cast of the dead.

From the way he had lain upon the sands half in, half out of the relentless ocean waves, she had mistaken him for a pile of clothing- debris that some beachgoer had left last night, soaked by the tide, and revealed in the early morning light. When she saw that it was the figure of a man, the thoughts of an early morning swimmer came to mind.

And then, when Dafne had finally approached, stories of merfolk had come to mind. The way his legs were wrapped in seaweed, gave them the appearance of a tail- but only briefly. His tattered shirt was nothing that any respectable creature of the sea would wear, and she could see pale toes peeking out from beneath the weed.

A body, then.

Regrettable, for he was handsome, despite the heavy brows (Or perhaps they only enhanced the softness of green eyes that stared blankly at the sky when she turned him over to check.) He was young. Hair that should be a shade lighter when dry was near blond.

And no pulse, no warmth- he'd been in the cold of the sea for too long.

Dafne wondered from what ship he'd been tossed. Norwegian, Swedish- British? Or perhaps a French vessel. She'd heard of no such thing happening lately.

Did he have a family?

Shaking off the thoughts of siblings with the same eyes wondering where their loved one's body was, Dafne found her cell phone to call for … well. The police might be able to help reunite this poor lone corpse with those who longed to know what fate had fallen him.

A familiar sound tickled her ear, while she was gazing over the sea, trying to remember where the currents were that pulled away, and which pushed too- and the tide, which had fallen only an hour past, would be coming in soon. The police had her on hold, while they sent out someone to photograph her merman, and take her statement-

But that sound, barely audible over the soft crash of the waves made her turn, wondering when someone had approached her, footsteps muffled in the sand.

Dafne saw no one.

Again, the soft rasping wheeze, and she realized it was coming from the corpse at her feet.

"Meijn God in de hemmel-"

Green eyes were clearing flickering across the sky, though still hazy with some distress that-

God. He had been dead a moment ago. He should still be dead. He was cold.

Dafne gathered her courage to touch him again, almost recoiling at the sudden realisation that he was now _breathing_. His skin was still dead cold to the touch, but she could feel the faint beat of a pulse.

Thoughts of American zombie movies raced through Dafne's mind for a moment, but were swiftly dismissed. There was no such thing- she had been mistaken about this man, that was all. He'd not been dead, just stunned, and she was just kneeling there watching him struggle to breathe when she should be giving aid. His face was turning faintly pink.

But his face had been blue- so pale and cold, and dead-

Not the time to think of that, Dafne reminded herself, lifting his head and shoulders, trying to ease the distress that had him squeezing his eyes shut.

"It will be all right." she told him as he coughed out a mix of water and what could have been blood. "You're safe now."

Warmth. He needed warmth- but all Dafne could do was hold onto the icy body, and hope that her body heat would suffice.

The police would have more when they came.

For now, she just knelt beside a strange man, holding onto him while he shivered.

"...where?" the strained word came, sounding as rough as if it were being dragged over rocks. "...date is it?"

Irritation laced the second question. Both had been in English, and an accent that she wasn't sure of, but she answered the questions anyway, watching with concern as the irritation had flashed across his face again at the answers.

But he was unconscious before Dafne could either tell him to stop straining himself or ask him any questions of her own.

His breathing was better, but faint, and help would be there soon.

And Dafne was left alone with her curiosity and a living man who had come from the sea.

Morgens was, for lack of a better word, irritated.

If what the police had said was true, England had washed up on his shore. Why couldn't it have been France's? Or Belgium- Belgium would've been happy for the company. But no.

He had to wind up on a beach in Nederland.

Charging past the hospital's front desk with a half-assed story about spies and government workers, Morgens walked swiftly to the room where he knew the other Nation was resting in. The police had laughed at the story of a girl finding a body swept in by the tides coming back to life, but after seeing the pictures they were about to distribute to identify their unknown, Netherlands knew the disbelieving laughter was really unjust.

What he hadn't expected was the doe-eyed girl staring at him as he nearly kicked in the door.

"What-"

A human. One of his own.

"This is a hospital, sir, please."

"Are you the one who found him?" Morgens asked abruptly, still watching her. Early morning walks on the beach, no nurse's uniform- yes. He really didn't have to ask, but it would make her feel better.

"Yes?"

"I see." Morgens frowned, studying the man on the bed. "Arthur, I'm kicking you out as soon as you can move. You've worried several of your friends, and I'm expecting Alfred to come beating on my door as soon as the news gets to him. Damned idiot."

"You know what happened?" The girl seemed a bit perturbed at his attitude. "I couldn't find any information on a ship sinking."

"He rescued some random guy, and got yanked away by the current. He should have known better, since he's spent enough of his life on the oceans making others' lives hell. Arthur, you might as well open your eyes, and get ready. Francis is on his way."

Green eyes slid open, narrowing almost immediately. Of course that would wake him up- didn't change the fact that the Nation was still a shade of unhealthy that always came from a revival. Mouth working, the faint flush of anger built and died within a moment.

"You-" The girl seemed flustered, but not as unphased as one would have expected. So she really had found England when he was still dead. "Seriously, let him rest. He was ..."

"Dead when you found him." Morgans walked to the side of the bed, "Is it irony when the king of the pirates drowns, or just a silly story?"

The girl flushed with anger and shame and confusion.

Dafne. There was her name.

"I did what needed to be done." There he was, the familiar dulcet grumpy tones. But fainter. Morgans couldn't really fault him. He had been missing for a little over a week, and most likely been tossed too and fro on the waves and under them for that time. Dead for a week- not many of them had done that. "And I will be out of your way in a moment."

Ah, there was the spirit, the pride- the absolute arrogance. England was making a valiant attempt to get out of the bed, while Dafne alternately tried to stop him, and glare at Morgens at the same time.

"I didn't say you had to leave immediately, idiot." They'd all gone through this before. "I'd rather not have the sudden invasion that's starting because of you, however, until you've enough strength to get back to your own lands, stay here. Dying repeatedly hurts like a bitch, as you should well know."

"I..." There was a furvative glance towards the human girl.

"Dafne found you before you revived." Morgens told him, "I doubt she'll tell anyone. They didn't believe her anyway."

"I would heal better at home." The stubborn answer came, "I've already missed a week's worth of meetings that have to be rearranged, and..."

"You'd throw yourself right back into work, even though you're not up to it. Heal for a few days, and then let America take you home and help take care of business. I'm sure he'd be delighted- and France-"

"Thank god I didn't finish up in France." Arthur said with a sigh, "It's bad enough when I'm alive."

"How... did you know my name?" Dafne was giving Morgens an odd, slightly wary look. "And what is going on?"

"You're a part of me," Morgens told her simply. "I'm your country. And this is England. There will be others later-"

"Hang on, Morgens, why are you telling her-"

"Because she needs employment, and I need a personal assistant to help with paperwork and dealing with my boss."

"What happened to the last one?"

"Quit. She couldn't handle things. This one can." Morgens smiled at the confused brown eyes. "If she can handle finding your dead carcass on my bum and coming to life, she can handle it. Now- about America..."

"Arthur!" If the door had been practically kicked open before, it was now nearly ripped off its hinges. America had arrived sooner than Morgens had expected. "Arthur, are you okay? I was wor- I mean, you missed a meeting, and I know you never do that, and then I didn't hear from you, and nobody heard from you, and I'm so hap- I mean, I'm glad you're okay and we can reschedule that meeting for whenever you feel better-"

"Shut it, git." Arthur looked slightly pained, and yet... there was a quality to the scowl that knitted his brows that didn't scream about unhappiness. "We can reschedule to another time. It's not as though it was an earth shattering event."

"Well..." America frowned slightly. The boy was... upset?

Morgens looked from one to the other, noting the sparks of relief that had been well hidden in Alfred's eyes, as well as an emotion that couldn't be named in Arthur's-

"Dafne, I need to set an appointment between you and my boss." Morgens said, suddenly understanding that there were secrets about. Despite the girl's protests, he ushered her out of the room.

If there was one thing he did understand, it was that expressing one's emotions should involve as small an audience as possible. Besides- Netherlands didn't need to see it, or confirm it. And it might not even be...

Happy reunions. If only all Nations could have them.


	6. Germany

Living by the rules was in his blood.

Discipline was strength, laxity was a weakness that he would never tolerate, except in one other Nation. (And that was mostly because said Nation had proven time and time again that he could not be changed, and still Ludwig wasn't certain whether the feeling in his gut was frustration, or jealousy, or something else entirely.) But either way, Germany was at war, and under those rules that he was so familiar with, there should have been no doubt. Only a fulfillment of duty, then an evening of wurst and beer before turning in to do it all again the next day.

Except, after years (these battles dragged on, and he found himself weary, but duty called-) instead of being in a Biergarten with a mug of lager and a plate of schweinbraten, Ludwig found himself in the streets of one of his poorest cities watching what looked like a group of vagrants with signs that protested the current conflict.

Deep in his heart, Germany was not fully committed, it seemed.

And yet...

Wandering closer to the people, Ludwig could hear the mutters and whispers of these people- none of them looking as though they wanted to trust him. (The uniform, he realized after a moment. They do not have faith in the appearance of a soldier anymore.) Some smiled faintly- and after a moment, Germany remembered that they had been doing this every evening since the beginning of the third year of this world war.

The sound of a vehicle approaching made many of the group scatter in fear.

And if he remembered rightly, the protesters were nightly ushered out of this square at the behest of Ludwig's boss. At gunpoint, if necessary.

"Damned French bastards." The cursing from the trucks grew louder as the handful of troops exited, weapons at the ready. "Their resistance is corrupting our youth."

Youth? Ludwig glanced at the slower moving protesters, those who were not afraid to show what they believed. There were no youths left here, there were old men, and young women. And Germany could feel it- they were all _his_.

The soldiers gathered around one of these old men- a grandfather who had seen far too many of his sons die for Germany, and his grandsons- The old man said something that Ludwig didn't quite catch, but the reaction was almost instantaneous. Guns were raised, pointed at the old man.

An apology was demanded, which only brought a lifting of the chin, and a stubborn glare.

Ludwig could see the fingers tightening on the trigger. He could yell and order them to stop- but they weren't listening to anyone. Their orders reflected none of this-

Before he could think about it, Ludwig dove for the man, just as the sound of gunshots began to echo off crumbling buildings.

Was he too late? Germany wondered for a moment, seeing the old man's shocked expression in front of him. Why... The shock and pain hit him a moment later, as the man reached for him, catching him-

When had he fallen?

The sound of panicking soldiers behind him confirmed that his Kaiser had told them not to use lethal force- and that killing someone who appeared to be one of their own- slamming doors, and the sound of that engine retreated, as he was laid on the cobblestones.

"Why have you done this for an old man- I was prepared to die." a soothing hand brushed his forehead, even as Ludwig felt his lifeblood soaking his uniform, and the street beneath him. It seemed he would die tonight. A pity he hadn't had his beer yet.

Perhaps this was an answer of sorts. He was about to lose this war- and he could only hope that the consequences wouldn't be too harsh for men like this. Anger faded momentarily, bringing with it the face of the only one who had ever wanted nothing but friendship. Perhaps, but the hope and lightness would be found in someone who couldn't see reality. If he could only see the world the way Italy saw it.

"You have given so much for your country," Ludwig finally said, staring beyond the eyes that were as blue as his own. "It is about time that your country did something for you."


	7. North Italy

Maybe it was all Germany's fault.

Romano would certainly blame Ludwig, and Feliciano would be stuck in the middle yet again, explaining to his _fratello_ that no, it wasn't anyone's decision but his own. Italy's legs had been shaking, his heart racing, and the white flags...

Well, they weren't white any more.

Even so, a lighthearted smile crossed his face. This was temporary. Unbearably painful, and scary, but temporary.

Scary, because he remembered seeing a little boy in a dark cape who never returned. Holy Rome had been... so brave. Italy never wanted him to be hurt, but he had, and now Feliciano was as well. Had it been like this for his beloved?

Breathe in. Breathe out. The sparkles in front of his eyes were because of lack of oxygen. Some part of him knew the scientific reason, but all he could focus on was how pretty they were. Would the bebè grow up to be a painter? Feliciano hoped the answer was 'yes'. Italy would always want more artists. Such promise in a young face. Perhaps Grandpa Rome had seen such a promise, when he took little Italy under his wing.

"_Fratello!" _Romano's voice penetrated the fog that had risen around him. "_Fratello,_ what did that potato bastard do to you?"

"Nothing, Romano." Italy found the words again. When had his brother arrived? Ah, that is right- the beast that was savaging his arm had dropped at a gunshot. "It was all the wolf- is the bambino all right?"

"Tucked in the cave behind you, asleep." There was something grudgingly strange about Romano's voice, and when Felicano found the strength to open his eyes, he thought he saw... tears? "You idiot. Germany didn't teach you to jump on rabid animals, did he? So why-"

"Ah," Italy tried to raise an arm to touch his brother, unafraid of his temper- Fratello might hit him, but his blows were always tempered when Felicano was involved. "He did not. I only learned the look of madness that will make an animal lash out. The wolf was going to eat the baby, and I … couldn't let that happen. He will be an artist, or perhaps the father of an artist."

"Feli-" Ah. A broken note in Romano's voice. Feliciano knew that somewhere deep down Romano loved him. Perhaps they could talk about things later, when Italy was not laying in a clearing and nearly dead from wounds inflicted by a rabid wolf. Perhaps. "You idiot. That's a girl."

"It is?" Felicano almost giggled. Yes, he'd known, but the tears- he wanted to paint his brother with that soft look in his eyes sometimes. But Romano would never stand for it- but then, Italy also wanted to paint the fire. Germany hadn't understood, but he had tolerated. Just like Holy Rome. "But he was wearing light red. Boys wear red."

"Light r- it's called pink now, and it's a colour for girls, you-" Fire- and just as swiftly the pain returning to amber eyes. "Feli, how did you get to be so brave?"

"I am not brave." It took Felicano a moment to gather the words, "I was shaking. I was scared- but the little one needed me. If I let her die, it would be as though I forgot to finish binding my pigments to the oils. I needed her."

"But you faced a wolf without a weapon. You would have picked her up and run away before- and perhaps gained a few miles before it caught you."

"Perhaps I have become a little braver." Italy sighed, the pain fading to numbness, "Perhaps knowing my brave friends has made me a little better."

"You were already better than them." Romano said gruffly. "But I... I don't know."

"Romano..." Feliciano asked with breaths that were increasingly difficult. He was falling into a hole, from which there was escape, but not an immediate one. "Do you think Holy Rome would have been proud of me today?"

The darkness had taken him, but not before he heard the hushed whisper.

"Yes. I think he would be. I know I am."


	8. South Italy

Romano hadn't noticed the earthquake, at first, probably because he was too busy grumbling about having forgotten whether or not he'd eaten this morning, and deciding that he probably hadn't, because he was feeling really shaky.

It wasn't until the cart of produce, already rickety from age and abuse, collapsed and sent tomatoes and onions flooding the pavement in front of him that he stopped and actually looked around. The trees were swaying and trembling in the distance. Bits of brick and mortar were falling away from the buildings to clatter on stone like hail.

"Fuck." Romano said with a resignation born of long practice. He was southern Italy. He had enough seismic activity some years than he cared to remember. It always left him feeling queasy, uncomfortable, and itchy. (Goddamn dust got into _everything_.) For something that lasted maybe a minute, it took him a long time to recover.

Before the ground could stop shaking, before he could make a motion towards shelter, he saw them.

Two boys- twins, it looked like- were standing next to a monument that was as old as anything- possibly even older than Romano. They were arguing so obnoxiously with each other that they failed to notice the cracks that had formed in the monument, and along the ground. (Just his fucking luck- he was in the epicenter today.)

No time to yell- and even if the boys paid attention to Romano, it would take far too long to get them to move out of the way. Not that he was even thinking of that at this point. They were in danger, and if that piece of marble fell on them, they'd be badly injured, or worse. And even if it was something from Grandpa Rome's collection, or even Feli's works- it didn't matter as much as the lives of his people.

Romano was shoving the pair _hard_, when he felt the patch of ground under his left foot give way. The sound of marble shattering merely made him want to sigh. Not the best way to spend the next month or two, however... maybe he could avoid the itching this time.

The twins looked back at him with shock and horror, as he fell to his knees, ankle twisted in the hole that had opened. The first dusting of marble coated him, sending the world to slow motion.

Romano wondered if it was this way for every nation who went through a death. The slowing of time, the thoughts of the past and the future. He remembered Grandpa Rome's stories of the twin boys who founded him- where Romano's heart lay in the seven hills. Maybe he wasn't as good at art as Feliciano- that was why he hadn't been taken by Grandpa to study art, or even to Austria's house, where music and art were everywhere. Even Spain, the bastard, hadn't wanted him...

No one wanted him.

Chunks of stone pinned his body to the earth, which was no longer shaking. The boys approached him with a mix of awe and fear.

"Are you... " One boy said, and the other finished the thought with, "all right?"

"Fuck." Said Romano, with a gasping wheeze. Broken bones, ruptured organs- he was no fragile flower. He'd be fine eventually. "Fuck no."

"Hang on," The first boy said, as his twin ran away. "We'll get help."

"Don't fucking argue with your brother in the middle of an earthquake." The words were hard to get out. "Get yourself killed that way."

"I know. It was stupid." The boy sat beside the rubble, "Save your strength, cousin."

"You and your brother should go help those who need you before helping a dead man."

"You're still breathing. As long as you're breathing, we'll-"

"Go help others, Alphonso. And make Alfredo help you too." Romano could feel a piece of a smile that he thought he'd never wear again start curving his lips. "Don't forget the old, and the little ones, they need you now."

"How did you-" Alphonso blinked. "But I don't want- Someone should be with you-"

"You are with my heart." Romano let his eyes close, suddenly feeling the weariness. One of his own people reminding him. He wasn't completely unwanted. Or alone. "Always."

Romano spoke no more, letting his body start to shut itself down. If he ignored the boy, he'd believe that he'd died already, and go. Visions of Spain, of Antonio fighting Turkey for _him_. Trying to be kind to the unwanted half-nation who had grown his shell of indifference and hostility to keep from remembering how lonely he was-

And how hard it was to come out of that shell to say how he really felt. It almost physically hurt, trying to say 'Thank you'. Or to say 'I appreciate all you've done for me'. But Antonio had never given up. His people didn't give up.

Maybe these twins would be the sort that brought pride to Southern Italy once more with their big hearts, and loud voices.

The hand that the twin had rested on his cheek for comfort didn't move away, even as Romano slid into the darkness that wasn't sleep.


	9. Spain

The first rocket's burst almost reminded Antonio of days on the high seas, and the battles between ships that usually ended up in disaster. (For him, at any rate.) The feeling of foreboding almost canceled out the electric excitement in the air.

The ground trembled, as the rumble of hooves on stone began- soft soled tennis shoes didn't make as much of an impression, but he could feel those as well. Antonio knew the distance between the pens and the arena. A half a mile- (825 meters, if one were to convert to the newer methods of measuring things, as most of his people did, but Spain remembered...) it wasn't far, but it could be dangerous.

He was here because he wanted to prove to Romano that he hadn't become completely soft- it was not like he could be killed by one of these massive bulls, and the thrill of danger, of the possibility of injury had not left his blood, no matter what England might have done to his precious Armada. Spain's history was not a peaceful one, no matter how he had become more so of late. The bullfighting was just one more reminder.

Slowly the small crowd began to move. The true race would begin shortly, as the bulls themselves began to stampede towards the arena.

Right on time, the pounding earth signaled that at least one of the enormous animals had begun to run. Then another- and another.

The quickening of heartbeats around him only made Antonio smile. Not all the runners were _his_ people, but the mix of adrenaline, fear and sweat was as familiar to him as his own names. Today would be a good run.

The pace was set- but out of the corner of his eye, Antonio saw a scrawny teenager trip, sprawling on the pavement like a ragdoll. Didn't the officials watch out for people who weren't fit to run anymore?

Breaking through the crowd, Spain reached down for the … wait. It was a girl. A scrawny, underage girl, who was from his southern coast, and-

The thundering was too close, and Adelina had twisted her ankle.

Shouts from above and beyond the barricades warned Antonio of the impending onslaught of bovine creatures, but the nearest barricade was a half dozen steps away. Spain wasn't going to let her be trampled by a force of nature.

Slinging the girl in his harms, Antonio sprinted for the barricade, feeling the hot breath of one such creature on the back of his neck. Too slow. Too slow.

Something scratched through the first layer of fabric, through to skin- deeper- and then that one was speeding on its way. The earth itself was vibrating from the force of the animals running. Skidding as they went around the corner-

A scream from above told him about the massive beast- (El toro monstruo, one of the largest most promising bulls of the season) – as it slipped on the cobblestones, staggered, and- Antonio shoved the girl over the barricade to the waiting arms of the spectators. If he took the time to carry her under, Monstruo would crush them both- as it was..

The weight of the creature smashed Spain against the wooden structure, then dragged him along the building. As the bull regained its footing, it lurched away, leaving his broken body behind.

Painful? Yes.

But Antonio had died in worse ways. His eyes slipped closed as the remaining stampede passed, some hooves hitting him, some missing- he couldn't fault the creatures for acting on instinct, for running- nor could he fault any of the humans who were so horror struck as to not attempt to reach him. He already knew it was too late, and by the time the professionals got there-

But his Addy was safe, and Romano... he might be impressed (grudgingly so, of course, like he had been when rescued from Turkey's grasp so long ago) if he was watching.

Antonio smiled faintly, as the safety of death pulled him close yet again.

Perhaps...

Yes.

Romano would be there when he awakened once again. Antonio just knew it.

Spain slept.


End file.
